Your calumny against the great is impious, it hurts yourself; against the small it is mean, for it hurts the victim.
The first flower that blossomed on this earth was an invitation to the unborn song.
Dawn—the many—coloured flower—fades, and then simple light fruit, the sun appears.
The muscle that has a doubt of its wisdom throttles the voice that would cry.
The wind tries to take the flame by storm only to blow it out.
Life’s play is swift.
Life’s play things fall behind one by one and are forgotten.
My flower, seek not thy paradise in a fool’s buttonhole.
Thou hast risen late, my crescent moon, but my night bird is still awake to greet thee.
Darkness is the veiled bride silently waiting for the errant light to return to her bosom.
Trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.
The burden of self is lightened when I laugh at myself.
The weak can be terrible because they try furiously to appear strong.
The wind of heaven blows, the anchor desperately clutches the mud, and my boat is beating its breast against the chain.
The spirit of death is one, the spirit of life is many.
When God is dead religion becomes one.
The blue of the sky longs for the earth’s green, the wind between them sighs, “Alas.”
Day’s pain muffled by its own glare, burns among stars in the night.
The stars crowd round the virgin night in silent awe at her loneliness that can never be touched.
The cloud gives all its gold to the departing sun and greets the rising moon with only a pale smile.
He who does good comes to the temple gate, he who loves reaches the shrine.
Flower, have pity for the worm, it is not a bee, its love is a blunder and burden.
With the ruins of terror’s triumph children build their doll’s house.
The lamp waits through the long day of neglect for the flame’s kiss in the night.
Feathers in the dust lying lazily content have forgotten their sky.
The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous.
The world suffers most from the disinterested tyranny of its well-wisher.
We gain freedom when we have paid the full price for our right to live.
Your careless gifts of a moment, like the meteors of an autumn night, catch fire the depth of my being. The faith waiting in the heart of a seed promises a miracle of life which it cannot prove at once.
Spring hesitates at winter’s door, but the mango blossom rashly runs out to him before her time and meets her doom.
The world is the ever—changing foam that floats on the surface